Chapter 7 Elias
ELIAS
Fuck.
Her blood danced on his tongue as though he were tasting salvation. It coursed through him, hot and sweet, flooding every hollow place that centuries of hunger had carved into him. It beckoned, teased, and tormented. Her very essence became a cruel melody he could not silence.
He wanted to tear deeper, to taste more, to drink until the fragile, fluttering creature in his hands went still. To take her wholly, utterly, until she was nothing but a memory drowned in him. Until she was a part of his very being. Until she were crying beneath him, begging him to stop.
It took every shred of restraint, every ragged thread of willpower to let go. He managed to pull back—barely. His lips, wet with her, dragged from her skin in aching reluctance.
The scent of her lingered. Her pulse still thundered in his ears, mocking him, calling him back. His jaw locked tight. He could feel the tremor in his own hands as he released her thighs, as though she were fire and he had scorched himself in reaching for her.
“Lamb…” The word rasped out of him, raw and unsteady. Not a taunt this time, not a sneer. A warning.
He had meant to toy with her—yes. To frighten her into obedience. To show her the edge of his teeth and watch her tremble. But this—this taste—had unraveled him.
He swallowed hard, savoring the trace of her that still coated his tongue, knowing he would never be rid of it.
He was still the monster his maker created.
I could kill her.
Penelope’s hands found Elias’ shoulders and just as soon, he swatted her touch away leaping back as though her skin had burned him.
His body struck the piano, the impact forcing a cacophony of sound from the strings—every key erupting at once, a discordant scream that seemed to echo his own fractured restraint.
“Elias?” Penelope asked, the scent of her blood—her fear—suffocating him.
Releasing a breath, he forced a calm into his voice as he nodded his head. “Are you alright?” he asked, his eyes trailing down past the pale skin of her hands which were now stained in red, to where her fingers covered where he had bitten her. “Does it hurt?”
Penelope’s doe eyes held his gaze for a moment longer before flicking down to her thigh. She shrugged with an innocent ease as she looked back up. “Surprisingly, no.”
“Good,” he repeated, but the word was brittle, hollow. His fingers curled against the lacquered edge of the piano until the wood groaned beneath his grip.
Elias forced his gaze from the blood at her thigh back to the gleaming black curve of the piano. The strings still hummed faintly from where his body had struck it, the dissonant echo a taunt in the silence.
He swallowed, jaw tight, then lifted his eyes to her. “You owe me a lesson.”
Penelope blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “A lesson?”
“The piano,” he said, voice steadier now, almost cold. “Do you think I have forgotten already? You promised you would teach me.” He pushed off the instrument’s edge and straightened, as though by sheer force of will he could smooth the hunger that still prowled within him.
Her lips parted, uncertainty flickering across her face as she touched her thigh again. “Now?”
“Yes,” Elias replied without hesitation. His eyes burned into hers. “If my hands must be kept busy tonight, let it be with your keys. Not…” His gaze flickered down to where the blood still welled, and his voice broke. “Not there.”
The air between them thickened. For a heartbeat, she only stared at him, her chest rising and falling as her heartbeat echoed in his ears. Then, slowly, she nodded.
“Alright,” Penelope whispered before crossing the room to the bench.
Elias lingered where he stood, as though the distance between them were a chasm he dared not cross. Then, with deliberate slowness, he moved back toward her. His hands flexed at his sides, restless.
She slid aside on the bench, making room for him.
He hesitated, then lowered himself beside her.
The proximity was unbearable—her warmth against his cold frame, the faint perfume of her blood still coiling in the air.
It was stupid—he was stupid, for thinking himself capable of any ounce of control around her.
He was his makers worst creation, after all. Control was not his to enact.
“Place your hands here,” she murmured, gesturing to the keys.
He obeyed, the ivory cool beneath his fingertips. His hands hovered like talons over something far too delicate for him to touch.
“Gentle,” she said softly. Her own fingers reached for his, guiding them down. The first note rang out—pure, resonant. Elias flinched, as though the sound itself had struck him.
Her lips curved faintly. “See? It isn’t so frightening.”
“Not frightening,” he muttered, eyes fixed on her small hand resting against his. “Unfamiliar.” His thumb twitched under her touch, not from fear but from the awareness of her skin against his own. Flesh he had just tasted.
Yet here she was, his Lamb, acting as though nothing had happened. All for her letters…
She pressed another key with him, then another, a halting melody beginning to take shape. The sound was awkward, uneven, yet it filled the room with something other than silence, other than hunger.
“Again,” he said, more firmly this time, though his voice was lower, almost reverent. “Show me again.”
And so she did.
Her fingers rested lightly against his, steadying, showing him where to press. The sound that followed was uneven, halting, but it was music all the same. Elias stilled, as though afraid even a breath might shatter the fragile thing forming between them.
“Good,” Penelope murmured.
He turned his head slightly, studying her profile—the concentration in her brow, the gentle curve of her mouth.
There was no fear in her now, only patience.
It unsettled him more than his maker ever could.
Her skin was so pale, so delicate, he could practically see the blood beneath it as if her complexion—one that housed so much sorrow—was no more than a mere veil.
She guided his hand again, coaxing another note from the piano. He let her, muscles slowly relaxing, the edge of hunger receding under the simple weight of her touch. Her hands were so small that he feared with one wrong move, he could break her.
The sound was imperfect, but it was also bittersweet. It reminded him of something he had almost forgotten. It reminded him of what it felt like to learn again. The humanity of it.
For the first time in years, perhaps centuries, Elias allowed himself stillness. The hunger did not vanish—it never would, of course—but for that fleeting moment, he let it rest, content to press ivory keys beneath her gentle guidance.
When the melody faltered, silence crept back in. Yet it was not the suffocating silence of before, but something kinder. Something shared.
Penelope glanced up at him then, a question in her eyes. Elias only inclined his head, voice low and steady. “Again.”
“Very well,” she whispered, the corners of her mouth only just lifting a fraction of a hair.
“Very well,” he repeated.
The night greeted him in silence. Elias’s footsteps echoed faintly across the thatched rooftops, each one dragging him further from the warmth of her presence, further from the fragile reprieve he had stolen from her.
He lifted his hand, staring at the faint red smear that remained beneath his nails.
It mocked him—evidence of his weakness, his hunger, his near undoing.
He had tasted too much, lingered too long, allowed himself leave when he should not have.
One heartbeat more and he would have been lost to her taste.
His hand rose to his mouth, thumb brushing over his lips where her essence lingered. A shudder wracked him. He had been so near—so perilously near—to proving himself the monster he had sworn he would never be again. He had wanted to—no, he yearned to taste her again.
Instead, he had pulled away. Barely.
His jaw tightened, fangs aching in his skull. Was this what passed for restraint? To take and then pretend it meant nothing? He was no better than his maker. Perhaps worse, for he had almost believed himself capable of control.
And yet, she had sat beside him. Guided him. Sat beside him as if he were not a predator, but a man. Offered patience instead of terror.
He closed his eyes, letting the image of her pale hands resting atop his consume him, and the thought filled him with something dangerously close to longing.
“Fool,” he muttered under his breath, quickening his pace. “She will be the end of you.”
But, no—no. This was not longing or yearning or anything else beyond Elias satisfying his hunger and his curiosities.
Anything beyond that was not meant for himself.
Though, he couldn’t stop himself from holding onto that tether—the fragile and distant strand of his humanity, woven into whatever tapestry he was becoming.
But how long could such a tether hold?
How long until there was no differentiating the person he was and the monster he will soon become?
He dropped down from the rooftop with ease, keeping in the shadows as he made his way to the edge of the forest.
Penelope was not meant for him. He was sure of that.
Still, the thought of her father so willing to sell her off to another man settled in his stomach like stone.
And who was Henry? She had not answered him.
Elias stilled as he approached the tree line, not turning.
“I know you are there,” he said firmly.
For a moment there was only silence, then the soft press of small feet on dirt. Elias turned, gaze sharpening.
The fox emerged from the shadows—the same one he had freed. Its ears drew back, gold eyes catching the moonlight as they locked with his own.
“You have been following me all day,” Elias murmured, crouching to the creature’s level. His voice, usually sharp, softened into something closer to wonder. “I told you to go. So why are you here?”
The fox stilled, head tilting, as though it might answer. Its golden eyes gleamed—accusing, knowing.
Elias let out a quiet breath, gaze lowering to the scar that marked its survival. “Ah,” he whispered, almost to himself. “Perhaps you are as much a fool as I. Perhaps you think I will protect you?”
The fox only stared back.
“Well, you are wrong,” Elias muttered, straightening. “If you want a master, there is a Horseman here who delights in taking in pests. You would fare better with him.”
Elias rose to his feet and continued his walk home. No more than a few footsteps passed before he heard it—the quick, persistent pitter-patter of paws at his heels. Elias stilled, jaw tightening. He did not turn, though the sound followed faithfully when he moved again.
“You test me,” he said flatly, voice pitched to the dark.
Still, the creature padded along, unafraid.
A humorless laugh escaped him, low and sharp.
“You are worse than a Lamb I know. A scar does not make you wise, little fox. It only proves you survived once.” His eyes narrowed, though a strange weight tugged at his chest. “Do not mistake survival for safety. You are a predator. You will never be safe from huntsmen.”
And yet, even as he spoke, Elias did not drive it off. He only lengthened his stride, and the fox lengthened its own, two shadows slipping deeper into the woods together.
By the time he reached his home, he had almost tuned out the beating of the little beast’s heart and the rhythmic pattern of its steps.
Elias stepped inside and before the fox could follow, closed the door behind him.
Silence finally started to sooth his nerves until—
The creature started scratching at the door, its claws dragging down the wood accompanied by a high-pitched whimper that was almost puppy-like.
Elias’ jaw tightened. He pressed his palm to the door, feeling the vibration of its insistence. “Persistent little beasty,” he muttered under his breath.
The scratching did not stop.
A low growl rose in his throat, but he turned away all the same, stalking deeper into the empty rooms of his house.
Let it scratch. Let it wait.
If it wanted a master, it would learn quickly Elias was the worst choice it could make.